


Participation

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bedelia is a goddess tho, F/M, Florence - Freeform, I'm obsessed with Hannibal being fiendishly oral so. . ., M/M, Pining Hannibal, Porn With Very Little Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut, angst and smut. . . smangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 03:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18402404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: Bedelia bides her time in Florence, playing a dangerous game with Hannibal. . . and finds herself most conflicted in more ways than she possibly could have imagined.





	Participation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [armitageadoration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/armitageadoration/gifts).



> Dedicated to my dear friend, Armitageadoration, who introduced me to this fandom and who has brought the endless joy upon joy of Hannibal into my life. xoxoxo.

**1.**

Her body betrays her.

She does not want it to feel this way, but. . .

Beneath the thick pressure of his golden fingers, her body betrays her.

She quivers. Her mouth opens, ever so slightly, as she cedes herself to his touch and resigns to his need. His need to control. His need to take. His need to make her feel.

Feel she does. Wave after wave, crests, recedes, and crashes against his insistent, demanding agenda. He does not stop, even when the delicate, flickering pleasure crosses the line and becomes heavy, throbbing pain. She sells her soul to feel it, again and again.

Like an addict, she anticipates, expects, and even depends upon what he offers. She craves his touch and hates herself. It does not cross her mind to hate him, nor does it occur to her to love him.

 

**2.**

 

On the plane to Europe, she fell asleep. She did not mean to. It had been her intention to not allow her guard to waver. But she drifted off, and woke with her head on his shoulder and a thin, gold band around her left ring finger. She did not take it off. It was part of the game they would play. Their dangerous, wicked game.

Hannibal lights the world on fire and she waits, as flames leap around her, until he comes to rescue. Very still, she sits behind a veil of flame. Perhaps she’ll be saved. Perhaps she’ll perish. Win or lose, participate or observe, she is all in.

Here now, in Italy, the band continues sparkling on her slim finger. She feels it there, even in her sleep. Remove it, she will not, at least not of her own conscious volition. She imagines starving herself until she becomes so frail it simply drips from her bones and disappears between crevices of cobblestone as she walks about her day. She imagines this as she slides into the water of her bath and submerges herself until her lungs burn and she explodes back to the surface to breathe.

 

**3.**

 

It is a free fall off a cliff, being here, with him.

She emerges from her tub glowing and scented.

Sliding a silk stocking over her calf, she wonders how she got to this place.

The hair on her neck stirs as Hannibal approaches. He creeps behind her on the bed, caresses her. His breath on her skin is warm and inviting as a grandmother’s kitchen in a fairy tale, yet this creature behind her would be a villain; a wolf or a dragon. He would be the mysterious force that snuck into the village and devoured all the sheep while the poor people of the village slept. His hunger was insatiable like that.

“I like to watch you dress, Bedelia,” he says. She stops short of what she does, stops breathing even, and looks over her shoulder at him. The sun of Florence has dipped this monster in gold, gilded him with a positively unfair beauty.

Consciously, she has stopped wondering if every time he enters the room will be the moment he casts his shadow of villainy over her and devours her as well. Unconsciously, her body betrays her by escalating her heart, flooding her muscles with adrenaline to prepare her to fight or flee, although consciously she knows she will do neither.

“Will Graham was a poor substitute for therapy,” she says. “And I am afraid I am a very poor substitute for Will Graham.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Hannibal says and strokes her arm to her neck.

“We will be late,” she whispers, but he persists in his generous, tactile adoration.

“I suddenly don’t want to go,” Hannibal says. “I have a sudden desire to dine in.”

Bedelia’s other stocking lies next to her on the bed. Her fingers twitch toward it, but she decides instead to fall back on the bed. “Very well, then,” she sighs. She would close her eyes, but then she wouldn’t be able to watch his face twist into a delighted mask as he contemplates his next move. His lips puff into a plump, pleased smile.

He moves between her thighs and he kneels there. He likes to taste. He likes to eat. He pushes her knees apart and breathes the musk of her arousal. Bedelia inhales and clutches a fistful of bedclothes. “Lydia Fell was a woman who, I am quite sure, wore underclothing,” Hannibal says as he dips his face lower to worship what Bedelia offers. He nips the fleshy sides of her thighs, inching closer.

“I am my own iteration of Lydia, as we all are our own compilations of the beings we chose to inhabit,” Bedelia mutters. The small of her back leaves the mattress as Hannibal strokes her legs. _Do it already. Do it. Do it!_ She screams internally. It does not occur to her to ask for that which she desires.

“It pleases me that your iteration, as you call it, feels no need for the formality of panties, Bedelia,” Hannibal says.

“Does it?”

“Yes,” he hisses and thrusts his tongue into her folds. If she’s been attempting to keep her tone indifferent or even frigid, she’s found to be an utter imposter as he mouths her. Her clit is engorged, obvious and Hannibal laps eagerly. She is slick, wet, and sweet as an oyster, but so much warmer, and unlike an oyster, he can feel her pulsate beneath him as he sucks and bites. For her part, she is quiet, but she bucks up to meet his mouth and rides him tightly as he brings up her undeniable need. She raises her head off the bed to watch him work. His eyes are closed and his forehead is smooth as he subtly bobs over her. He focuses mostly on the swollen bead that begs his attention, but takes his time to also explore her labia and to sweep around and into her. His tongue paints her in lazy, languid strokes. “You’re delicious,” he says and rises from her. She offers a small and unsatisfied whimper, but he shoves down his pants and takes out his cock so he can fuck her.

As he always does, he turns her over and takes her from behind, sliding into her with only a little effort as he has already made her so very wet and wanting.

Bedelia could climax from his first thrust, so raging is the fire he has stoked in her, but she bites her lower lip, holds her breath, holds back. When he sheaths himself within her to his satisfaction, he wraps an arm around her waist and reaches up to fondle her breasts in their delicate, lace brassiere. He brings her up, so they both kneel on the bed, that he might have better access to her chest as he fucks her, slowly, with content little grunts. She feels his nipples and the hairs of his chest brush against her shoulder blades. He nuzzles in her neck as he takes her at his leisurely pace.

Her breath hitches, and she squeezes her muscles around him, urging him to take her faster and harder, but not daring to move her own hips to speed the pace. He moans and brings a hand down from her breasts, over her tummy and between her legs. His fingers might be better than his tongue, if that’s even possible. They smolder through her and make every inch of her glow. Under his luminous spell, she raises her arms and reaches behind her to clasp his neck, his shoulders, to find any soft expanse of flesh- real flesh- of the person beneath the person suit.

She collapses forward onto her hands and knees when she comes, a victim of gravity and circumstance. She does not want him to know how terrifyingly good it feels, and yet, her traitorous body crashes around his cock in an endless storm. He draws a savage breath and speeds up to match the pace of her pulsations.

Bedelia opens her eyes and is momentarily blinded by a flash of gold. Her ring catches the last ray of sunlight and reminds her, even through the thickness of her pleasure and lust, even through the ardent attention with which Hannibal ravages her, that she partakes in nothing more than a ruse. Hannibal finishes in her with bruising fury, and she feels for that split second, as he thrusts most deep in her, his anger and disappointment. She is a surrogate, and a poor one at that.

 

**4.**

 

It is as though he impregnates her with his grief and loss. It twists and turns in her. It twins with the knowledge he will eventually leave, if he does not kill and eat her first.

Leave.

Devour.

It does not particularly matter, she thinks.

It is all of the same nature, therefore it is all the same.

The knowledge settles in her womb like brandy settles in a snifter.

When she realizes she is not particularly frightened by this knowledge, but she is particularly sad, the effect is devastating.

She’d always found it strange to watch what desire would make foolish patients party to. Otherwise rational people could become complete imbeciles when wrapped in the downy blanket of lust, or even worse, love. In her darkest nightmares, she’d never imagined herself wearing Hannibal’s ring, let alone craving his murderously wicked touch. She’d always encouraged her patients to remain in control, to remember their autonomy and authority over their own existence.

She watches Hannibal’s chest rise and fall as he sleeps in the twilight of their Florentine apartment, spent from fucking out his despair in her, and she wonders when it was she last had any agency in her own life.

Certainly it was long before Italy.

There was life before Hannibal and life after Hannibal. Truly, there is no life with Hannibal.

 

**5.**

 

 _Find little ways to take control_ , she begs herself. She places the kit with the glass vials, syringes, and needles in a private place. She slides the vent door closed.

“I know exactly how I will extricate myself from this melodrama in which you have cast me, Hannibal,” she breathes against his neck as his fingers exert their control. He’s been in his dungeon of academia all day. She cannot conceal her smile because she knows something he does not.

“Oh, Bedelia,” he murmurs.

He takes her repeatedly that night. He’s grown sloppy in his efforts to disguise his pain as anything other than what it is. In the morning she dresses in a suit which covers bruises that rise on her flesh like violet clouds. She walks back to the shop. The bells jangle as she opens the door, but her nerves do not. Decision has made her almost deathly calm.

She approaches the counter in a fog nearing delirium. She does not notice the metallic smell of blood as it drips from the various carcasses, nor does she note the fragrance of ripe cheeses or even the rare perfumes of the treasures she orders.

“Due bottiglie di Batard-Montrachet e li tartufi bianchi, per favore,” she says. Her voice is placid, almost nonexistent. She bites back her smile as she pays in cash.

Three days later she returns to the shop and is greeted by the bells. She orders the same parcel and pays in cash. A hare drips blood from its nose as it hangs from its feet. She watches the blood spatter on the floor into a delightful puddle. _It is a shame you did not hop faster, my friend_ , she thinks as she collects her purchase and herself. She feel a pang of what could best be described as confusion, but in the end, it is better to participate and not to simply observe.

Hannibal taught her that.

 

**6.**

 

She cannot control when or how he leaves. Already he is wearing the pattern on his veil very thin. It will not be long.

“Are you so very set on self sabotage?” She asks him one evening. She peers over his shoulder to see he has drawn Will Graham into a Botecelli. His pencil strokes are so fine they seem to capture all the light and none of the shadow to create the essence of his design. She marvels at how this can be so.

“I must admit I am curious what will happen,” he sighs. She does not want to feel the weight of his despair so keenly upon her frail shoulders. She wants to feel the fuzz of his chest and the peaks of his nipples. She wants to bear the heaviness of his fingers as they dredge through her sodden delta. Most of all, she wants to feel jealousy, not compassion. What does it say about a woman who fills with compassion for the misery of a monster?

 

**7.**

 

Strange what desire will do.

It will not be long now, she thinks.

Today she sits with her bag of wine and truffle in the train station. She feels the metallic eye of the camera watch her. She almost looks up into it and grins. She sits for some time before rising and walking to a trash bin where she disposes of the bag. Then she returns to the apartment and to Hannibal.

She could be more than a surrogate.

She baits a hook. She lures him and light will shine in Hannibal’s dark eyes once again.

She does not want to feel this way.

Her heart betrays her.

 

**8.**

 

She brings a glass of wine to him on the balcony. “‘ _But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness_ ,’” she tries to tease.

“Do I put you in mind of Shakespeare? Hamlet?”

“It’s from As You Like It,” Bedelia answers.

“Hmmm. You are right, though. I am melancholy. I thought it would be enough just to be here,” he confides with a heavy sigh into the night. “I felt such peace initially. And it was fun playing house with you.”

“And now?”

“I find myself conflicted and longing for a comfort I’ve never known in a place I’ve never been.”

“You find yourself heart sick and home sick, two emotions very unfamiliar for an intelligent psychopath, and yet not entirely impossible.” Bedelia smiles indulgently. “Perhaps we can change our nature after all.”

“Or perhaps we just evolve to become different iterations of ourselves,” Hannibal matches her smile. “Your company has been most enjoyable, Bedelia. And how well you know me.” His eyes shimmer like obsidian in the inky night.

“Likewise, Hannibal.” Her voice reaches softly into the air between them. She watches his shadow sip his wine.

“Shall I shuck you some oysters? Or perhaps a plate of figs and cheese?”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“Very well. Then let’s draw you a bath and I will wash your hair, hmm?”

“I would like that,” she says. She turns and heads inside. She feels his shadow follow her.

 

**9.**

 

Having studied addiction and addictive behaviors, Bedelia knows the addict knows not when her last fix will be; nor does she know if it will be fatal.

But as she mounts Hannibal, in a rare turn of events, she knows this will be her overdose.

She plants herself on him and hears the shop bells jingle as she opens the door to someplace very unknown in her. She revels in the chromatic surprise of his eyes as she places a hand on each of his shoulders. She's changed the rules of their game without word or warning. She squeezes her fingers into his flesh as she squeezes her flesh around his cock and begins to ride. 

He’s so large. She rubs her clit against his shaft. She does not need his tongue or fingers, only the lovely force of gravity as she falls against him, over and over. She comes fast and hard, throws her head back so far her hair tickles her ass. She grinds her first orgasm into her next, and in these moments of pure bliss, she separates from herself and from him and becomes nothing more than the primal, pulsating part of her brain that glows. It is so bright. It shines behind her eyes. She suddenly realizes she’s been clenching her jaw and eyes almost painfully tight, and she opens them at last with a gasp.

Hannibal’s hands rest on her thighs and he peers up at her with a look very near amazement, possibly amusement, and definitely arousal. She stills atop him. He does nothing to move. He likes to feel. He likes to know. And so aside from their breath, they are almost paralyzed in their stillness.

His mouth curls up into a smile very like a cat. “You feel so good and tight after you come like that, Bedelia,” he says softly. “And you are so very beautiful from this angle. I don’t think I will have to do much of anything at all to finish.” His eyes flicker and he moans with a very small undulation of his hips. He wants to think he is in control. Bedelia raises an eyebrow and smiles ever so slightly. She squeezes her muscles around his cock.

“It must be challenging,” she whispers. She pulses rhythmically around him, but does not move otherwise.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“To see me in this light from this angle and not be able to pretend I am him,” she does not deign to say his name. She puts her fingers around Hannibal’s throat and presses gently.

“Bedelia,” he gasps and licks his lips. “Right now, that is not what I want at all, I promise you.” Easily, he could overpower her, but he does not. His eyes search hers. His eyes float in hers like two amber shards of mermaid tears in the Mediterranean. She releases her grip on his neck and lowers herself to wrap her arms around him. She feels his nipples against hers, and the hair on his chest as it rubs against hers. She clutches him to her and tries with all her might to absorb his skin into her own. She does not want to cry, so she does not cry. Instead, she fucks herself raw against him to another orgasm, and as she falls to pieces around him in a kaleidoscope of pleasure, she feels him let go in her in a gush of ecstatic anguish.

She falls limp on top of him and lies there for some time. His arms come around her and stroke her back in luscious waves of goodbye. She waits until he softens and slips from her, and then she slides off of him, and onto her back beside him.

She curls on her side so he will not notice the tear that has fallen on her cheek.

Her body and her heart have betrayed her.

 

**10.**

“This isn’t how I imagined saying goodbye to you, Bedelia,” he says.

She has packed his things. She tucks his sketchbook and his pencil into his bag. She tries to ignore the lacerations on his face. She tries even harder to ignore the sorrow in his eyes, not at leaving her, but at leaving Florence.

“It is exactly how I imagined it, Hannibal,” she replies.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written with multiple versions of "Wicked Game" being played on repeat. . . 
> 
> I live and breathe for comments so please feel free to say hi. I know smut makes people clam up, but I would truly love to hear from you. xoxo.


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